The Untouchable Man

The Untouchable Man

He moves like moonlight dancing where the shore meets the sea,
A vision of elegance—a figure steeped in the allure of red wine.
A masterpiece sculpted by gods who knew perfection,
Untouchable, distant as the last breath of a fading love song.

Draped in a suit that fits like poetry,
Midnight silk flowing over his sculpted frame.
Each step, deliberate—an artist signing his name,
The faint echo of his footsteps,
Rhythmic against the marble floor,
My heart beats to the cadence of unseen drums.

His very being, a revolutionary work of art—
Flawless, innovative, unique—
A Picasso, an Andy Warhol,
A vision that defies replication.
Brushstrokes daring the canvas to acquiesce his brilliance,
No artist can capture the fire in his soul.

His eyes, twin constellations—knowing, aloof,
Holding secrets he will never share with me.
Confidence hums in his wake as he walks past,
Leaving behind the faint smell of Clive Christian No.1,
A scent that clings to the air,
Lingers on my skin, though we never touch.

He is rare, distinctive, irreplaceable—
One of a kind, a lost da Vinci, an unseen Basquiat,
The Taj Mahal at dawn, kissed by the rays of the rising sun.
A myth turned flesh—
A man who exists just beyond my fingertips.

And I? I wish, I ache, I dream—
How I long for him to be mine.
But how does one touch what isn’t theirs?
How does one claim an avant-garde masterpiece?
I can’t, it is not mine to possess.

Admiring the Kohinoor diamond,
Surrounded by armed guards,
Respecting what I can never have.
I stand breathless, longing to own, yet can’t.

He was never meant to be mine to hold.
A man so unfathomably true—is he only my fantasy?
He walks past—moonlight slipping through my fingers,
Real—yet only a brushstroke in the gallery of my dreams.